


the animal love makes of us

by Eliane



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Infidelity, M/M, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Relationship Study, they're v. in love things are just Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane
Summary: "The first time they sleep together is also supposed to be the last."





	the animal love makes of us

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to carlo for the proofreading, the advice & fixing my commas since 2015. 
> 
> title comes from [this poem](https://aprweb.org/poems/object-permanence) by nicole sealey.
> 
> this is fiction & is intended to be read as such. all remaining mistakes are mine. xx

**2007.**

The first time they sleep together is also supposed to be the last.

At least, that’s how Roger justified it to himself. One time was fine. One time could be an accident – no matter that he had, in fact, painstakingly planned it. One time could be forgiven.

And who knew? Maybe none of their chemistry, that incandescent, almost tangible thing always burning between them, would translate into bed and the whole thing would end up being a disaster. They would laugh it off the next morning, in an attempt not to let the awkwardness show, and part ways thinking, _oh well_. Or it wouldn’t be a disaster but it would just be nice. Satisfying. Like an exotic dessert you taste once and even though you find yourself happy you tried it, you know you will never have it again. This dessert could only be eaten in this place and time; a memory to be looked upon fondly but not relived. And if it was none of those things, if it was brilliant and amazing, it would still be the last time.  After all, Roger had resisted for so long before deciding to give in that he was certain he could do it again. Resisting, that is. Except now, he would have something to remember, something to sustain him when he felt he could be ripped open by want and, surely, that would make it easier to bear, wouldn’t it?

It wouldn’t.

The moment his hands touch that smooth, sun-kissed skin, his fingers on it somewhat too rough and calloused, in a way they never appear to be while holding a tennis racket, the illusion shatters. The moment he puts his lips on that body – shoulder first, then neck, then jaw, before they finally reach their destination – the moment they kiss, Roger knows. It won’t be the last time.

The kiss itself is gentler, more tender than Roger had imagined it would be, but it seems like his imagination has failed him in a lot of ways. The lips under his are softer than he had dreamt them to be, moving with an experience and a confidence he should have expected but didn’t. The tongue against his is demanding yet the hands around his waist, fingers lingering at the hem of his shirt, are hesitant, shy even. Roger wants to tell him that it’s okay, that he would take off his shirt himself if he could only convince his hands to abandon their exploration of golden skin, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps the kiss going and going and going, his heart beating faster with each passing second, his throat growing tighter, his limbs going weightless and then it stops. The kiss stops. Something not unlike panic clouds Roger’s mind. He wonders if he’s done something wrong, if it’s possible that this should be it, that this kiss should be the only one they ever share.

The thought is unbearable.

Roger opens his eyes to find Rafa watching him. Rafa’s gaze on him is a bit amazed, a bit marvelling and it doesn’t look like he wants to put an end to this at all. The sudden relief that fills Roger is dizzying. He lets out a small, nervous laugh and Rafa’s stare becomes questioning.

“Roger?”

Roger shakes his head to dispel the uncertainty he can discern in Rafa’s voice. “It’s nothing, it’s just… I thought maybe you’re having second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts?” Rafa repeats, frowning.

“Yeah. Maybe… Maybe you don’t feel like doing this anymore, you know?” He tries gesturing between them in a wordless explanation but it turns out to be rather hard, with the both of them standing so very close. 

Still, Rafa seems to get what he means. “No… I want this,” he says, his eyes on Roger clear. Determined. “I want you.” The words are quiet yet, for a moment, Roger fears he might crumble under the sheer weight they carry. He takes in a breath, waiting for his pulse to calm down, for the stifling sensation to pass.

He’s here, in this hotel room, with Rafa. They both want the same thing.

“Okay,” Roger exhales, as his hands find their way back under Rafa’s shirt, against his skin. “God, okay…”

Later – after he pushes Rafa on the bed and divests him of all his clothes one by one, after Rafa does the same to him, his features turned hungry with desire, his mouth rendered wet and plush with too many kisses, after he gets to learn Rafa’s body in this new, intoxicating way, a body working with his instead of against his – Roger thinks it again. After he caresses and kisses and licks using his hands, his mouth, his tongue, after he discovers what Rafa sounds like when he’s overwhelmed with pleasure, what Rafa looks like when he releases the tight control he always has on his body and comes – Roger tells himself, _this can’t be the last time_.

Roger blinks his eyes open and, for the first time since they entered it, takes in the reality of the hotel room they’re in. It’s not so different from Roger’s own or the hundreds of other hotel rooms he’s stayed in over the years. It’s furnished with the same interchangeable furniture one can find in hotels all around the world: a coffee table, a couple chairs, a desk and a TV. But this one is messy, obviously lived in and bears traces of Rafa everywhere.

He’s in Rafa’s bed.

“What are you thinking?” Rafa asks.

Roger shifts, facing Rafa. His hair is a mess, his cheeks still somewhat flushed and Roger can see bruises forming on his skin, a testament to Roger’s appreciation of it. He’s, well, he’s lovely. The knowledge that Roger can touch him now, that he doesn’t have to keep himself in check all the time is both foreign and heady and Roger desires nothing more than to do it all over again, not feeling anywhere near as guilty as he should. He has wanted Rafa so much and for so long, since the day they met, really, that he can’t imagine giving up on it, on him, when he has only had the smallest taste. And maybe want is a poor descriptor for what is happening between them, maybe it’s about much more than that but Roger isn’t quite ready to examine that train of thought yet.

“That I’d like to see you again,” Roger answers.

“You can see me Sunday, no?” Rafa teases, lips curling. “If you play good.”

Roger smiles back but refuses to be distracted. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

At this Rafa sighs, his smile morphing into something sad, and the oppressive feeling which had vanished settles back against Roger’s chest. “Don’t…” he says before Rafa can speak. “Don’t say it.”

He’s aware it’s a terrible idea, that they shouldn’t. That there is so much stacked against them it’s going to end badly. He doesn’t need to hear it.

Rafa bites his lower lip, gaze fixed on the sheets. Then his shoulders sag and Roger realises he’s won.  “Okay,” Rafa agrees before adding, tone hesitant and strained, “Mirka?”

“I’ll think of something,” Roger answers. Which is the truth. He’ll have to think about it, whether to tell her or not. But now is not the time. 

“Okay,” Rafa says again.

Roger should leave it at that. But he’s never been good at not pushing for more, has he? “So, we _are_ seeing each other again, right?” he presses, his fingertips stroking the skin at the juncture of Rafa’s neck and shoulder which, he has noticed, is a sensitive spot. Rafa’s eyelashes flutter under the touch.

“Yes,” Rafa says, his breath shorter than it was mere seconds ago. “I… Yes.”

“Good,” Roger murmurs so low that it’s almost inaudible, even to him. With his free hand, he grabs Rafa’s neck and pulls him toward him. Rafa comes willingly, his forearms settling on each side of Roger’s face, the tip of his nose brushing Roger’s, his lips hovering over Roger’s mouth. It seems inconceivable that any kind of space should exist between them and, as Roger closes those few inches, he can’t help but wonder how many people have felt that all-consuming sort of desire. If it’s normal to want something so much it leaves room for nothing else. If he’s mad.  

If he is, he can’t bring himself to care.

***

**2009.**

_We need to stop._

The words are right there, on the tip of Roger’s tongue, ready to be spoken. In truth, he’s been meaning to say them for the past six months but has never managed to bring himself to. Now, though. Now he doesn’t have a choice. The wedding has already come and gone and Roger promised he would do it before the birth. He’s not sure whom he promised – if it’s Mirka, or himself, or some abstract idea of what a normal life should be – but he did. So he will.

Rafa is lying on the other side of the bed, also awake despite the early hour. He’s facing away from Roger but the unusual distance between them and the stiffness in his posture are enough to betray a tension he has been carrying all night long. He knows what Roger has to tell him, probably has for months, and that’s another reason why Roger can’t keep delaying it anymore. He’s hurting Rafa. Roger opens his mouth, as ready as he’ll ever be.

“I’m in love with you,” is what comes out instead.

Rafa doesn’t turn around but lets out an undefinable sound. Something harsh and painful.

“I’m sorry,” Roger adds. “That’s not…” That’s not what he meant to say. But he can’t take it back. He doesn’t want to. “I’m sorry.”

“Is fine,” Rafa says.

But it’s not fine at all.

“Rafa…” Roger starts but Rafa shakes his head no and Roger falls silent again.

He couldn’t tell how long they stay like this, not moving, not speaking, not touching, only that it feels _wrong_. When they’re together, they’re always either talking – sometimes in English, sometimes in French – or laughing or, in some cases, arguing. And, even when they don’t have anything to tell the other or are too exhausted to bother, they never stay too far away from each other. That’s how they first learnt to speak to each other, by playing tennis, by letting their bodies converse: Each serve a question asked, each return a question answered, each forehand opening a sentence and each backhand closing it. That’s the language they know best. It’s a conscious effort, when they’re in public, not to lean into each other, not to get too close. They fail, most of the time, heads bending together as if pulled by gravity, a hand lingering on a shoulder, a finger brushing against a forearm. So, although this distance between them is, objectively, rather small, it’s nonetheless suffocating. Still, Roger endures it. A minor ordeal, compared to what he’s asking of Rafa.

“I know,” Rafa says, when he breaches the silence and it takes Roger a moment to understand what he’s responding to. _I’m in love with you._ “And I love you.” There is no hesitation in Rafa’s tone, no uncertainty. As if Roger were already aware of it, as if Rafa had already told him a thousand times. And, well. Maybe he has. “But sometimes…” Rafa continues, “Sometimes, love is not enough, no?”

_It should be_ , Roger wants to retort but he quenches the impulse. He doesn’t need to voice it to realise how childish and feeble it would sound. He tries to think of something else to reply, something to make the situation a bit less awful than it is but he comes up with nothing. Every word his mind conjures would leave them hurting more than they currently are.

In the end, he just says, “Can you come here? Please.”

Rafa does, without uttering a word. He settles next to Roger, his body and face turned toward him but still refusing to meet his gaze. Roger doesn’t push. He raises one hand and, with the tip of his fingers, traces the unhappy line of Rafa’s mouth in an attempt to smooth it. It doesn’t quite work. This close, Rafa appears young and fragile in a way he never does to Roger. He’s either the opponent on the other side of the net or the man Roger is in love with, but he’s never this. Someone breakable. Someone Roger doesn’t know at all. 

“You know what we should do?” he says, all of a sudden. “We should have breakfast.” He’s not sure where the idea came from but he’s desperate for a distraction and this one is as good as any. At least, it forces Rafa to look at him.

“Is five in the morning,” he answers, bemused.

“Is it?” Roger replies, as cheerfully as he can muster. “We can eat our breakfast while watching the sunrise then.”

It seems like Rafa is about to protest but he must change his mind because he nods and says, “Okay. But I am taking a shower and you are calling.”

“Fine with me.”

As Rafa disappears inside the bathroom, Roger calls room service and places their order – _a bit of everything if you please_ – before opening the windows leading to the balcony. It’s raining outside but the balcony is sheltered away from the rain and Roger decides it’ll do. By the time Rafa is out of the shower and dressed their food has arrived and Roger has laid it all out on the small table. They sit down, facing each other. Despite the lack of space, their legs don’t touch.

The morning air is damp and it’s windy but the view of the Monte Carlo bay is nonetheless breathtaking.  The drops of water fall seamlessly into the Mediterranean and everything appears kind of blurry, as if the landscape had been painted by an Impressionist artist. Rafa blends in with the melancholic atmosphere, a lingering sadness permeating his every gesture, his every smile. It’s not the perfect morning Roger would have wished for but it’s the one they have and he’s intent on making it count. So, ignoring the persistent and nauseating belief infusing his veins that they won’t have many more mornings like this, he talks and jokes and cajoles until a real, luminous smile graces Rafa’s features. And, all of a sudden, he’s Roger’s again. Roger smiles back in triumph and blinks away any tear that might threaten to fall.

When they’re done, they both stand up but instead of going back inside, Rafa leans against the railing of the balcony. Roger works his way around the table to join him. There’s not enough room for the two of them to stand next to each other so Roger encircles Rafa’s waist with his arms, his palms against Rafa’s belly, and puts his chin on Rafa’s shoulder. Their temples are touching and Rafa’s wet hair tickles Roger’s neck. Roger sighs, relishing this renewed physical closeness.

“You think we see each other this Sunday?” Rafa asks. It’s an echo of the conversation they had, their first night together, and Roger doesn’t think they’re talking about tennis at all.

“I hope so,” he says. “But you never know.”

“Yes.” Rafa agrees. He covers Roger’s hands with his and entangles their fingers. “You never know.”

Roger lifts their clasped hands and presses a kiss on Rafa’s knuckles in response.

They stay like this, unmoving, waiting for the day to take over the night. There’s no sound except for the rain falling down and the rare roaring of a car passing by. They seem to be so utterly alone that it wouldn’t be hard to convince himself they truly are. That they have entered another world where nothing but them exists. Matters.  

_Would you_ , a voice at the very back of Roger’s mind challenges. _Would you trade your world for this one?_

Roger has no answer. 

***

(Later that afternoon, exhausted and distracted, Roger loses a match against Stan for the first time and he guesses that’s another kind of response.)

***

**2013.**

“Why did we decide to stop doing this again?” Roger pants, as Rafa’s mouth leaves a trail of hot, fervent kisses against his neck.

Rafa tilts his head away from Roger’s neck, leaning back against the wall to peer at him. Roger would usually berate himself for asking such a question, but he isn’t thinking straight. Hasn’t been ever since he laid eyes on Rafa dressed in a suit and resolved that this ATP heritage celebration would end up with his hands on Rafa. Or Rafa’s hands on him, he doesn’t mind either way.

“We did not,” Rafa answers. His tone is even but there’s an edge to his smile.

That’s true. They hadn’t but it had happened anyway. After that breakfast at dawn in Monte Carlo, all those years ago, after the night Roger hadn’t been able to say the words out loud, they had begun to see each other less, had let the distance grow between them. It was easier that way. Less painful. Or so Roger had tried to convince himself. In truth, it had hurt terribly, had felt a bit like something as essential as breathing was being torn away from him but Roger had chosen not to dwell on it. If he ignored it, surely, it would go away. Because Rafa was right; sometimes, love is not enough.

Which is not to say they never saw each other. Outside of a tennis court, that is, although those instances had also become less frequent. They didn’t plan those encounters, they happened. And they were almost always an awful idea, a temporary reprieve that would then leave Roger aching for weeks, wondering if he was back to square one. Some days, he couldn’t tell if he had ever left it. If he wasn’t still, in some way, stuck in that hotel room, on that balcony, contemplating trading one world for another. Except he has the girls, now.

“Roger?” Rafa asks.

“It’s nothing,” Roger says, forcing himself to go back to the present. To Rafa. To the hotel bathroom they have locked themselves in.

“Okay.”

“It’s just… I was thinking I miss you.”

“Oh? Tell me what you miss,” Rafa demands, soft but firm and Roger shivers. Rafa is the only person who has that effect on him. Who makes him feel like he could be set aflame by sheer desire.

“I miss,” Roger begins, his hands going back to what they were doing before he started this conversation, mapping Rafa’s chest and back, his mouth very close to Rafa’s neck, “I miss your skin.” He licks a patch of Rafa’s skin then, pulsing hot, the barest hint of stubble under his tongue heightening his arousal. “I miss your mouth,” he adds, brushing Rafa’s lips with his. “Such a lovely mouth. Such a perfect mouth.” Rafa lets out a moan that Roger barely registers. “I miss…God, I miss your arms,” he says. “Take off your jacket.”

Rafa does.

Roger wastes no time. He unbuttons Rafa’s shirt, pushing it down as soon as he’s able to, and grabs Rafa’s arms. He can sense how well-defined the muscles are under his palm and tightens his grip. “I miss the way they feel under my hands. I miss the weight of your body on mine.”

“Roger, please…” Rafa’s voice is strained, and it’s impossible to tell if he wants Roger to stop or continue.

“Please what?”

“Don’t stop…”

Roger releases Rafa’s biceps from his grasp. His hands fall all the way down to Rafa’s lower back and he pulls Rafa’s body against his, Rafa’s erection digging into his hip. “I miss fucking you,” he whispers in Rafa’s ear.

It’s easy to say. Easier than saying, _I miss talking to you. I miss laughing with you. I miss being with you_.

Rafa moans again and Roger chases it, this time, capturing Rafa’s mouth with his and losing himself into it. Lips and tongues and teeth clash together, at first, before the kiss grows softer. Something akin to tenderness swells inside Roger’s chest, threatening to engulf him.

“I miss you fucking me,” he goes on, not caring how wrecked he sounds. “I miss feeling you inside me.”

And that’s it. Rafa opens his eyes, looking at Roger like he might go mad if Roger doesn’t touch him. “Now, please...”

“What do you want?”

“Your mouth.”

“Yeah,” Roger exhales. “Yeah, okay.”

He gets down on his knees, on the black and white marble tiles. Rafa grimaces.

“Don’t worry,” Roger says. “ _My_ knees are fine.”

“No, I am thinking… Maybe this is not a good place,” Rafa replies, as Roger puts his hands on his crotch.

“Bit late to worry about that, don’t you think?” Roger laughs. He presses one palm against Rafa’s erection and grins when Rafa shudders. “Anyway,” he adds, “I don’t really care.”

“You do,” Rafa says. His voice is quiet, resigned. It’s an awful thing to hear.

“No,” Roger shakes his head. “Not the way you think I do.”  Without any further teasing he opens Rafa’s dress trousers and pulls them down, then does the same with Rafa’s pants. “Can we… Can we talk about this later?”

He wants Rafa in his mouth. Now.

“Okay.” Rafa tangles his fingers in the strands of hair at the nape of Roger’s neck, their touch light, just enough to make their presence known.  He’s staring at Roger intently, with the sort of complete focus only he manages to conjure up, and Roger has missed this too. Being the centre of Rafa’s world. “You miss this?” Rafa asks, as if he could read Roger’s mind, the faintest hint of a challenge in his tone.

Roger doesn’t answer, not verbally anyway. Instead, he finally, finally takes Rafa’s cock in his mouth and does his best not to let out a satisfied groan. He doesn’t bother with such things as finesse and sophistication, they’re both so wound up there’s no need. He sucks as hard as he can without it becoming too much and settles into a familiar rhythm.

He likes this. He’s good at this. Making Rafa come with nothing but his mouth, his fingers digging into the flesh of Rafa’s thighs.

He’s _missed_ this, all right.

The weight of a cock in his mouth, the taste of it against his tongue. The taste of Rafa.

“Yeah,” he admits, barely stopping long enough to utter the words. “I do. I miss it.”

Rafa whimpers in response before letting escape a litany of broken, pleading, _Roger, Roger, Roger,_ from his mouth… and yes, Rafa was wrong. Roger wouldn’t mind someone pushing the door open right now, someone catching them. Not because it would force upon him a choice he’s never known how to make but because it would mean that, for a moment, someone would see him. That this part of him, this always hidden part, would become real under the bright lights of a five-star hotel bathroom.

Rafa’s legs start trembling under his hands and Roger can tell he’s getting close. He sucks harder, something not unlike desperation driving his movements now, and Rafa comes a few seconds later, still moaning Roger’s name. Roger swallows it all before resting his forehead against Rafa’s thigh. Rafa’s fingers are playing with his hair, caressing it, a soothing gesture.  

“Okay?” Rafa asks.

“Yeah,” Roger chuckles. “Just give me a minute.”

He breathes in, breathes out and gets back on his feet. As soon as he’s standing again, Rafa grabs the lapels of his jacket and crashes their mouths together. The forcefulness of the kiss takes Roger by surprise, contrasting with how gentle Rafa’s hands were in his hair a mere minute ago. He must be realising the same thing as Roger – this time is going to hurt even more than usual. This time is going to leave them bruised and aching for months. The thing is, it would be fine, Roger would accept that there is no way for them to be together without wounding each other a bit, if it wasn’t always worse for Rafa. Roger’s not sure what it says about himself that the knowledge doesn’t prevent him from doing it.

One of Rafa’s hands releases its hold on Roger’s jacket to sneak inside Roger’s trousers, closing on his cock, and Roger gasps into the kiss. It doesn’t take much. Roger has already been on edge for so long, he could probably come from picturing Rafa’s hand alone and the feel of it stroking him just so, just like Rafa knows he craves. He comes hard, with an abandonment he hasn’t experienced in a long time.

When he comes back to himself, he’s leaning against Rafa, their foreheads touching. They’re a mess – sweaty, their clothes wrinkled and undoubtedly stained. But they didn’t get caught. And they don’t continue their half-begun conversation either.

Rafa doesn’t ask what Roger meant when he said, _I don’t care the way you think I do_ , and Roger doesn’t tell him. Like so many things between them it remains unfinished, incomplete. Waiting for a better time, perhaps. Or a better life.

***

**2016.**

“Why didn’t you want me to come?”

They’re sitting on the stands, so close to each other that Roger’s shoulder is pressed against Rafa’s and their knees keep brushing. Neither of them moves away. Everyone else has gone to bed, there’s no one but them. Perhaps it would be more reasonable of them to do the same but it’s been such a beautiful, perfect day that Roger doesn’t want it to end. Something tells him Rafa doesn’t either. Which is why they’re still here, late into the night. Or maybe this was the only way the day could end – the both of them alone, staring at an empty court below them.

Rafa shrugs and gives Roger a quick, pleading glance asking him to leave it at that. If it was about anything else, Roger would follow Rafa’s wishes but it’s been bothering him for months, not understanding why Rafa didn’t want him to come to the opening of his academy, why he more or less had to invite himself. So he pushes.

“No, really. Tell me…”

Rafa sighs, chewing his lower lip. “We are not…” he gestures between them, one eyebrow raised. “Not anymore, no? So I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Yeah,” Roger admits. “But we’re still friends, right?”

Rafa emits a sharp laugh and, for a moment, Roger fears he’s said something wrong. But when Rafa turns his head to look at him, his gaze is fond, almost tender. “We are friends,” Rafa agrees. Then, he puts one hand on Roger’s knee, his fingers curled in a loose fist, and lets it graze Roger’s upper leg before flattening his palm against his thigh. Roger’s breath hitches, an unmistakable sound in the otherwise silent night. “And we are not friends at all,” he points out.

Rafa starts removing his hand but Roger catches it between his before Rafa can withdraw it completely.  He entwines their fingers and stares at their hands like this, Rafa’s skin darker than his even though it’s the middle of October. It makes a beautiful picture.

“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” Roger says. “I used to think… I used to think it would pass.” What he didn’t think was that he would, one day, be telling this to Rafa but here he is. There’s something about seeing what Rafa has accomplished, what he hopes to do in the future, the kind of life he desires, that makes Roger wonder how he fits into all this. Or, well, used to. If, once upon a time, Rafa’s plans included him. “Or that it would lessen, maybe.”

“It is not stupid,” Rafa says, with a small smile. Then, very softly, “It has not passed?”

But Roger isn’t quite ready to answer. “It’s an amazing place,” he says instead. “I’m glad you have something for… after.”

“Thank you,” Rafa replies. Although his voice is even, the softness, the openness that had infused it mere seconds ago are gone and Roger hates himself a bit.

“Do you ever think about it? What it’ll be like after.”

“Sometimes. Not a lot.”

“Yeah. I never used to but with the surgery I’ve kind of had to think about it, you know?”

“Yes,” Rafa answers, disbelief colouring his voice. “I know.”

And, right. Of course Rafa would have intimate knowledge of what it’s like to wonder if you can come back from an injury. “I’m sorry, I keep saying the wrong thing tonight.” Roger takes in a breath, brushing away a few strands of hair falling on his forehead. “It’s just, are you… Are you happy?”

He looks back down at their clasped hands, uncertain what he’ll do if Rafa says yes. If he says no. But Rafa does neither.

“Roger… Just tell me what you want, no?”

“Well, another slam would be nice,” Roger deflects, in a feeble attempt at a joke.

Rafa snorts. “Sure you win another slam,” he says, and Roger can’t help but marvel at the fact he has kept intact his youthful belief that Roger could win anything.

Truth is, Roger knows what he wants, always has. He just never believed he could have it. He’s still not sure he can but he’s also not sure he’ll ever be able to play the way he used to, no matter what Rafa says. If this is it, if this is the end, what does he have to lose? Everything is so precarious right now, his world ready to crumble under his feet at the single word of a doctor, but he’s sure of this. Of Rafa.

Roger frees Rafa’s hand from his and shifts, so that they’re facing each other. Rafa’s expression is a carefully constructed blank mask, the sort of face he presents to journalists all around the world. And, well. Maybe it’s warranted. He’s different from the first time Roger did this all those years ago, took a leap of faith and invited himself inside Rafa’s hotel room, hoping it would end with him in Rafa’s bed. He’s older but Roger doesn’t mind that nor the things that come with age – the creases at the corners of his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead, the shorter and sparser hair. He does mind the things that come with experience though – blank faces, hollow smiles and a weariness Rafa so rarely manages to shake off anymore. As different as he is now, though, Roger still wants him. With all the broken and weary bits. It’s only fair, after all, when he’s responsible for some of them. So he says it.

“No. It didn’t pass. I’m still…” he breathes out, “I’m still in love with you. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m always going to be in love with you. And it’s not… I know nothing has changed. Well,” he amends, “except that I’m older and have four kids but it’s still as difficult as it was ten years ago. And there’s still a lot of things I can’t offer you. But I miss you.” And this time, Roger doesn’t hide behind the promise of sex. He lays it all out, lets Rafa see him. Tired and injured and afraid of the future. “I am exhausted of missing you. So that’s what I want. I want you.”

Roger’s heart is beating so fast it almost hurts, his ribcage seemingly tightening in a way that makes it so very hard to breathe. But he also feels unbearably light. As if a weight he hadn’t been aware he’d been carrying for the past eight years, ever since that night in Monte Carlo, had been lifted from his shoulders.  

Rafa is staring back at him curiously, as if he’s having a hard time comprehending what Roger has said. “You do not know?” he says, amazed.

 “Not know what?” Roger frowns in confusion.

And, God, Rafa’s smile is blinding. “You always have me.”

“Do I?” Roger wonders, because it seems a bit too good. “You were the one who said sometimes love is not enough.”

Rafa shrugs but his smile doesn’t falter. “Is true. But it does not change that I love you.”

“You’re not… You were not angry with me?”

“No,” Rafa shakes his head. “I was angry at other things, no? But not this.”  

“Okay,” Roger says. It’s probably more than Roger deserves but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s seizing opportunities. So he does. “Can I… Can I kiss you?” It’s something of an absurd question, considering their history, but everything about this is fragile, delicate and Roger needs to get it right. Rafa nods and Roger leans forward, closing the distance between them.

They’ve kissed, perhaps, a thousand times. They’ve kissed in the early hours of the morning, their mouths clumsy with sleep, lazy and unhurried, and they’ve kissed in the middle of the night, frantic, feverish kisses as their hands were exploring naked skin, always wanting more. They’ve kissed in the bright light of day, near the windows of sun-filled hotel rooms, on the porches of rented villas, and, once, in the middle of the sea. They’ve kissed in the shadows, behind drawn curtains, in the far back corners of locker rooms, in the silence of their own homes. Some of those kisses were joyful, teasing and triumphant, and some of them were sad, full of despair and unsaid pleas.

Yet, none of them have been like this.

They kiss with the easiness of two people who know each other very well, who know when to open their mouth, when to lick and suck and, at the same time, with the tentativeness of two people sharing their first kiss. As if they can’t really believe that they’re doing this again, that it’s happening. For a while, it stays like this. Soft and gentle. Then something shifts. Maybe the realisation that, for the first time in years, they don’t have to worry about this being their last kiss. Maybe a desperate need to get as close as they can, to meld into each other. The kiss turns messier, more forceful. Roger puts everything he has into it – how much he has missed Rafa, how he has longed for him – waiting for Rafa to kiss him back the same way. And Rafa does, willingly.

When they break the kiss, Roger burrows his face in the crook of Rafa’s neck, afraid of what might be etched on his features. One of his hands settles on Rafa’s shoulder and the other starts stroking his collarbone, soothing them both. He’s so focused on his task he almost misses Rafa’s quiet question.

“Mirka?”

Roger tilts his head up, meeting Rafa’s gaze. “I’ll talk to her. But I think it should be fine.” He doesn’t say that, even if it weren’t, he would do this anyway but maybe Rafa can discern it in his tone because he doesn’t push. “And you?” Roger hates asking this question but he owes it to the both of them. He’s not naïve enough to imagine that Rafa has been celibate, waiting for him all this time.

“No,” Rafa says. The knot in Roger’s chest loosens. “Just Mery,” he adds, but Roger knows it’s not quite the same thing and he nods.

“So,” Roger says, after a pause, “does that mean I get to see the new boat?”

Rafa gets on his feet and stretches out one hand toward Roger. “Bedroom first,” he grins. “Then maybe tomorrow we see the boat if I am in a good mood.”

And, as Roger takes Rafa’s offered hand and stands to follow him, he can’t help but laugh.

It’s true, what Roger said. Almost nothing has changed. The world is very much the same, at least for them. This thing between them that Roger never knows how to name – love or obsession, passion or madness – still seems impossible. The future is still unpredictable. But the warmth of Rafa’s hand in his makes it all feel a little less suffocating.

***

**2019.**

Rafa doesn’t look surprised to find Roger waiting for him in his hotel room. Although, to be fair, he’s the one who gave Roger a key. He puts his bags on the floor and steps over them, walking toward Roger who’s leaning against a wall.

“I think maybe you are gone already,” Rafa says, dropping a small kiss at the corner of Roger’s mouth.

“Hmm, no. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” Roger replies. “I only have twenty minutes, though. Thought you’d be here earlier.”

Rafa shrugs, a tired gesture encompassing all he’s had to do before managing to leave the grounds – physio, press, interviews. His lips are pursed tight, the way they do when he’s unhappy about something but refuses to complain about it. Roger probably shouldn’t find it so endearing.

“You have time for a shower?” Rafa asks. “I have clay _everywhere_.”

Oh, well. Roger isn’t going to turn down such an invitation. “Yeah, I guess I can be five minutes late. It’s my plane, after all.”

At that, Rafa throws him a smile, the first real one since last Tuesday, since it became inevitable that they would play this semi-final against each other and Roger’s heart clenches. Rafa doesn’t waste any time divesting himself, leaving his clothes to fall on the floor before disappearing inside the ensuite bathroom. Roger does the same, only taking a few more seconds to lay his own clothes on the bed. Then, he joins Rafa inside.

Rafa is already standing in the shower, under the spray, his back to Roger. Roger stops where he is, a bit mesmerized. It’s a very nice back.

“Roger?” Rafa says, looking at him over his shoulder. “You are coming?”

“Yeah,” Roger answers, breaking off his wordless worship. He takes the few more steps separating him from Rafa and settles behind him, his chest plastered against the back he was just admiring. He encircles Rafa’s torso with his arms, his hands coming to rest right above his heart. Rafa leans back against him and a contended sigh escapes his lips. Roger bends his head down to kiss his neck, an open-mouthed, wet kiss. The heartbeat under his fingers becomes more frantic and Roger smiles.

“Give me the soap,” he murmurs. He stretches out one hand in front of Rafa who presses the soap into it. “Thank you.”

Roger squeezes the bottle, spreading the liquid on his palms. He begins with Rafa’s shoulders, rubbing the soap onto Rafa’s skin. They don’t have a lot of time so he keeps his movements efficient without rushing them either. He lets his hands roam over Rafa, over parts of his body he’s explored a thousand times. His shoulders, then his back. His back, then his arse. His arse, then his legs – at which point Roger crouches, ignoring the slight unease in his own back. It’s different from his usual explorations, though. It’s not so much about sex as it is about reacquainting himself with a body that, a couple hours ago, was working against his own, intent on defeating him. It’s about reclaiming it, maybe.

Once he’s done with the back of Rafa’s body, Roger moves around to do the front. This time, he starts with Rafa’s legs, working his way up. When Roger gets to Rafa’s crotch, he notices that Rafa’s cock is half-hard but he doesn’t linger on it. He continues, up and up – Rafa’s belly, his chest, his collarbones – before going back down to wash Rafa’s arms. Eventually, he reaches Rafa’s hands. The right one first, then the left one. The one holding a tennis racket. The one that will, soon enough, wear a ring that isn’t Roger’s. Roger blinks and raises Rafa’s hand, taking his ring finger into his mouth and sucking at it lightly. It tastes like soap and water and something not unlike regret. After a few seconds, Roger releases it because there’s no point dwelling on this. This is how their world works. Sometimes the person you’re in love with gets married to someone else, no matter how much you wished it weren’t the case.

Roger lifts his head up and meets Rafa’s eyes. His gaze is unwavering, if slightly pained, and not for the first time Roger marvels at Rafa’s strength. “Done?” Rafa asks, voice soft, and Roger nods. So Rafa cups Roger’s head between his palms and kisses him, slow and intense.

“I wish… I wish we had more time,” Roger whispers, when they break the kiss.

“We had two weeks, no?”

“Yeah.” They did. Funny how short that seems, now that it’s over. Roger exhales. “I should get dressed,” he says, and Rafa frees Roger’s face from his grasp. 

Roger gets out of the shower, grabbing a towel on his way out. He’s already back in his clothes when Rafa emerges from the bathroom, only wearing a towel, his wet hair pushed back.

“The driver will be here in five,” Roger tells him. Which is more or less the equivalent of saying, _I need to leave now_.

“Okay.”

“It wasn’t too bad, right?” At Rafa’s questioning glance, Roger adds, “the match, I mean.”

Rafa laughs. “Was very good for a match played in a…”

“A tornado?” Roger suggests.

“A tornado,” Rafa repeats, satisfied. “Why?”

Roger shrugs, trying to appear casual. “I don’t know…  If it’s the last one, I’d like it not to be too terrible, you know?” He doesn’t say, _like the Shanghai one,_ but they both hear it anyway. “One of them is going to be the last one,” he adds.

To Roger’s surprise, though, Rafa snorts. “Is not the last match,” he says. There’s such conviction in his voice that Roger ignores his phone vibrating, probably telling him his driver has arrived, to finish this conversation.

“No?”

“No.”

“Okay, then. Tell me.”

Rafa smiles, something soft and vulnerable. “You, me. Wimbledon. This is the last match.”

“And how does it end?” Roger asks. He finds it hard to breathe.  

“It does not,” Rafa answers. It almost sounds like he’s continuing a conversation they’ve begun more than a decade ago.

“It does not?”

“No.” Rafa’s smile grows wider, lighting up the entire room. He’s rarely looked so beautiful to Roger. “We play and it does not end.”

Roger’s heart breaks, a little. Rafa is usually so ruthless in his pragmatism, in his refusal to embrace anything but reality, that the fantasy, spoken out loud, feels like a precious gift. A parcel of Rafa’s soul, entrusted to Roger’s care.

“Okay,” Roger begins but, before he can say more, his phone starts vibrating again. “I’m sorry, I really have to go.”

“Is fine. Go,” Rafa says. “I see you in two weeks.”

“Yeah, two weeks. Good luck for Sunday,” Roger says, kissing Rafa one last time.

Then he turns around and walks toward the door. As he opens it and crosses the threshold, stepping out into an empty corridor, Rafa’s words echo in his mind, bright and clear.

_It does not end_. 

And, in that suspended moment before the door closes behind him, that moment when everything is still possible, Roger lets himself believe it.


End file.
